


Smile, Fond

by cest_what



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-09
Updated: 2010-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cest_what/pseuds/cest_what
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's happening tonight, and the whole country is on edge. Newspaper people should know things, but Oliver's as wound up and lost as everybody else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile, Fond

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to scrtkpr for the very marvellous beta.
> 
> Originally posted to [LJ](http://cest-what.livejournal.com/9838.html) March 2008. (Not _Deathly Hallows_ compliant.)

The moon should have risen an hour ago. It was skulking behind the clouds in the east; the ones that hadn't moved or dispersed or brought rain, the way clouds ought to do. Oliver almost expected them to swirl darkly into the shape of a skull and snake.

He pulled the sleeves of his jumper around him, shivering. Then he turned and left the tiny second floor balcony, shutting the door behind him.

After two minutes of pacing around his kitchen he had to open it again, in case something was happening out there.

It wasn't. Nothing had been happening all day, really; nothing had been happening, but the entire nation was on edge.

Well, something did happen in the morning: at about ten o'clock the news came through that Hogwarts had shut down all channels of communication with the outside world. Nobody had known why, or what was happening there. Parents had been frantic, and most of them had owled the _Prophet_ about it – a crisis reaction Oliver had never entirely understood.

He wondered whether they called the Ministry, too. Had Percy been inundated with owls, today, like Oliver?

Was comparing notes a good enough reason to Floo call him?

Oliver tapped his fingers on the balcony. Probably not.

Everyone at the paper had been on edge too. It hadn't really been the news about Hogwarts, or even the Death Eater sightings that came in in the afternoon, although they made good excuses. It was the owls who were reluctant to fly and the Crups who howled at kitchen doors and it was the taste of the air: the burnt, toxic taste and the touch of static that Oliver was fairly sure, although he wouldn't say it out loud, meant large amounts of dark magic were being used somewhere.

*

Lee had probably been the worst. He fidgeted – worse than usual – with his dreads and with the quills on his desk. He leaned his chair back until it nearly fell over. He searched through the mess of papers on his half of the rickety wooden desk, then gave up halfway through and fell into a reverie, his teeth biting his bottom lip hard enough to turn it white. He made jokes, constantly, most of them not very funny.

Oliver tried to ignore him and concentrate on the match analysis in front of him. It had been a weird game. It had been a win for the Canons – their Seeker almost tore through a tree to get the Snitch twenty minutes in – but they'd played so defensively that it hadn't given them enough points to pull them very far up the championship.

He doodled little Snitches onto his notes, then a stick figure Seeker diving into a tree.

Owls hooted and circled the newsroom, bringing mail in every few minutes. Oliver nudged one of them off his desk and frowned at the analysis again. The doodle had picked up a bit of ambient magic: the little stick figure was now beating itself to death against the tree. Oliver shuddered, feeling the dark magic prickle on his tongue again, and pushed the parchment away.

"Well, if Oliver Wood can't concentrate on Quidditch, it really is the Apocalypse," Lee said.

Oliver looked up. Lee leaned his chair back; he reminded Oliver of a cat twitching in the middle of a stretch. "I've never seen it before. I always thought you could keep drawing game plans if the house was on fire. You managed it in the common room with Gred and Forge hanging on you."

Oliver made an effort to un-tense his shoulders. He tapped at the match analysis. "Well, this was a daft game. The Cannons don't have a bad Chaser team this season. They could have tried to make a splash rather than pinning all their chances on the Seeker."

Lee yawned. "Well, the captain's an ex-Slytherin," he said, the words stretched out of shape by the yawn. "They're not big on risks."

Oliver stabbed his quill into his new piece of parchment, ink spattering. That kind of caution showed a lack of respect for the game, honestly.

"Marcus Flint liked risks," he remembered. For an idle moment he imagined that it was Marcus Flint he was stabbing with the quill.

"Flint was insane, though," Lee said. He snagged another owl out of the air, unhooking the message from around its leg. Technically, mail duty was his job, but he usually ignored it and let the owls find their targets by trial and error. This time he unfolded the message and looked at it. The owl pecked hopefully at his finger and he shooed it away.

"Another loony," he said. "It's like they've all come out of the woods today, seriously."

Heather Flitweather, who wrote restaurant reviews at the next desk, shot him a quelling look, as though he was distracting her. Oliver had never in his life spent time in a more chaotic environment than the newsroom, so he found this a bit comical. Lee didn't acknowledge it at all.

"This one's from some witch in Swansea. She says she can tell us what's happening at Hogwarts through the psychic link her Crup has with her son."

Oliver had pulled the match analysis towards him again. He hesitated, distracted. "Is that poss–?"

Lee blew out an explosive breath. "No. Anyway, her son's not even at Hogwarts. It's her Crup which has been missing all morning that she claims has gone to Hogwarts."

"Oh, right." Oliver frowned. "Didn't you say she was writing from Wales?"

Lee gave him a serene smile. "It Apparates."

Rita Skeeter swept into the newsroom, the Rita Boys trailing her in a flurry of fetched tea and fawning compliments. Skeeter talked rapidly as she walked, the Quick-Quotes Quill bobbing beside her, scribbling into a notebook. The room felt busier by a factor of ten.

"– indicate that the centre of operations of the extremist vigilante group, rumoured to be called the Order of the Swallow, may not have shifted from the school after Albus Dumbledore's death."

"The tragically reduced hero of the Grindelwald war," one of the Rita Boys put in. "I liked that phrasing in your last story."

Skeeter smiled and patted his cheek, then took the cup of tea one of her other proteges offered.

Lee glanced at them, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I don't suppose you've heard from Percy Weasley, have you?"

Oliver's head snapped up. "What's happened to him?"

Lee rolled his eyes. "I meant about _this_. The Hogwarts thing, and the loonies panicking about their Crups, and ... everything. What the Ministry's actually planning, I mean, rather than the official line."

Oliver had shrugged, looking away. "I haven't heard from him."

*

That had been hours ago, and since then the tension had got worse. Oliver still hadn't heard anything from Percy, either. He wandered his flat, dousing and relighting the lights in each room. He thought he should eat something, but he was too jumpy to cook. He grabbed himself a handful of uncooked bran, making a face as he munched on it. There was probably a reason people cooked it, after all.

He wondered whether Percy was as wound up as everybody else. If he was compulsively cleaning his spectacles with his handkerchief every few minutes, the way he did when he was nervous.

He was probably snowed under at the Ministry, trying to do damage control and stop public uneasiness turning into public panic. He probably hadn't even left his desk yet this evening. He probably hadn't left his desk _all day_.

Out on the balcony, the moon was still struggling to peek out from behind the clouds in the east, black against the lighter sky. There was some movement, now – or maybe Oliver was imagining it. But it looked as though the whole black mass was roiling.

An owl flew by, very close to his face, and he stepped back.

The Death Eater sightings had come in at about four o'clock. That had been east of here too. Oliver wondered if there were Death Eaters somewhere under that cloud; striding through dark fields, black boots crunching the grass, rolling smoke overhead.

Or maybe they weren't so far away as that. Maybe they'd stride out of the darkness into the street below, laughing flame and death.

God, how many times had he and Percy had this conversation over the last year?

*

The last time had only been a month ago. They'd been snatching a break in a teahouse in Diagon Alley. Oliver had had to drag Percy away from his desk to get him to take a lunchbreak, but Percy usually relaxed some once he was a certain distance from the Ministry.

This time they'd fallen into a silence, Percy watching the rain streak the glass beside him. Oliver was mostly watching Percy, although he disguised it with frequent sips of his tea.

After a moment Percy had picked up the threads of the familiar conversation – the one they always came back to.

"What would we do if they attacked here?" Percy looked at his hands, then at Oliver, troubled behind his spectacles. "If Death Eaters attacked this teahouse. Or ..." he thought about it, "maybe the cobbler's across the road. So we could see, but we weren't being directly attacked. So we had a choice."

Oliver turned to look out of the window, concentrating on the image in his mind: the Dark Mark hanging over Diagon, screams and terror from the little shop over the road.

"Let's say the cobbler's," he said. "There's probably a back entrance on to Skinflint Alley, and there's that broad window on the side with all the elf boots piled up. That's three entry points, including the front door."

Percy settled comfortably into his side of the conversation. "They're Death Eaters, though," he said, the words precise. "They won't sneak in through the rear entrance. They'll come in and set fire to everything and torture people."

Oliver shook his head. "They like to appear out of nowhere. Just _there_, in a swirl of black cloaks and, you know, screams. They'd either go in via Skinflint or they'd Apparate into the street outside – right there." He pressed a hand against the glass, framing a part of the street where rainwater trickled through the cracks in the cobblestones. His hand left a smudge on the glass.

"Do we go in the front door?" Oliver asked

Percy fiddled with his sleeve. Oliver found his eyes drawn to the movement, to Percy's fingers on the shirt cuff. He shook his head and looked away.

"If they were ... setting things on fire," Percy said hesitantly, "like you said; we might be able to do something before they noticed we were there. If we cast _Petrificus_ into the smoke ..."

"Fast," Oliver said. "And then rolled out of the way –"

"– or Apparated."

"And cast again from the window, or under a bench –"

"– And hoped the Aurors turned up before we got caught by a stray Unforgivable."

"Or a not-very-stray one," Oliver said. "They'd probably notice two young guys casting body binds at them, wouldn't they?"

Percy chewed on his lip. He arranged the sugar bowl and their cups and saucers into a slightly different pattern on the table. Oliver wasn't sure whether he was using them as a visual aid, or if they'd just been asymmetrical and bothering him.

He could remember when he wouldn't have found that endearing.

"What if one of us concentrated on maintaining a shield charm while the other cast hexes?" Percy asked.

Oliver blinked. "I don't know any shield charms that let you cast through them."

Percy coughed, embarrassed. "Er, no, me neither. Sorry."

"Well, what if ..." Oliver tapped his fingers on the wooden tabletop. "No, I need to see it."

He jumped up, the sound of Percy's "_Oliver_," following him, and strode to the door, pulling the hood of his robe up. He ran out, the rain stinging against the side of his face, and ducked inside the cobbler's. It was dim and dry, and the shop girl gave him an owlish stare. He looked around, then dashed out again.

He stood in the street, rain coursing down the right side of his face and into his collar, examining the shop. The shop girl came to the door to watch him. He gave her a wave before he headed back to the teahouse.

He was kind of soaked, and the waitress met him at the door, giving him a meaningful look. He remembered the wand in his pocket and pulled it out with a grin to perform a hasty drying spell. He was a bit rubbish at them, so he ended up damp and sort of mildewed, with his hair still sticking in wet curls to his temples.

"Better," the waitress pronounced. Her eyes strayed a little regretfully over his shoulders before she turned back to the counter.

Percy shook his head at him when he got back to the table; but he was smiling as if he couldn't help it, bright and melting and somewhere, with that part of his mind that Oliver tried to pretend didn't exist, he marked the smile down on a scorepad and labelled it 'Smile, Percy's, fond – caused by self'.

Oliver dropped into his chair. "What if you held a shield, but dropped it at ten second intervals to let me cast through it?"

Percy passed him the teapot. "Surely they'd notice the pattern?"

Oliver quickly filled a new cup, scooping in four cubes of sugar. He used the sugar tongs to gesture. "They're setting fire to things and torturing people. Everything will be too confused to notice anything."

Percy leaned back again. He looked at Oliver, his eyes straying over the clinging hair and damp collar. Oliver thought for a moment that he might tell him off for running out in the rain after all. But Percy's gaze slipped past him to the window. His expression was distant. "I suppose we'd really do it?"

Oliver imagined freezing up, unable to move, watching the carnage across the street from the safety of a teahouse.

"Hell, I hope so," he breathed.

After a moment he shook himself and looked away from the window. "Of course, we'd probably end up dead."

Percy blinked.

"Which would be a shame," Oliver said. "There are a lot of things I haven't done yet, you know. I always wanted to play against Victor Krum, for one. I was devastated when he came to Hogwarts the year after we graduated."

Percy looked blank. "Yes," he said. "That would be the downside to dying in a fiery blaze over the street there. I see that."

Oliver made a rude gesture at him. "I haven't had a really big story yet, either. Other than the Dangerous Things to Do With a Broomstick story, and that wasn't really Quidditch, you know? Or ..." He frowned down at the sugar bowl, then grinned. "Actually, I always wanted to make out under the Quidditch stands at school, too. But I guess I've missed the window on that one."

He looked up and surprised a pink tinge on Percy's cheeks. It deepened as he stared, then Percy cleared his throat and looked away.

Oliver stared harder. "What? _What_?"

"Nothing," Percy said, rough-voiced. He cleared his throat again. "I mean ... well, I did once, but ... you know. It was at school."

Oliver felt a grin stretching his face. "Percy, you _devil_. Were you head boy at the time? Were you out after curfew? Who was it?"

"_Oliver_." Percy straightened his robes. "Actually it was Marcus Flint. But it was a Saturday afternoon, and there was no rule-breaking involved. Er ..." he hesitated. "Possibly Flint was skipping out on a detention, but I never knew him to go to one, so ..."

Oliver's smile felt a bit cracked. He opened his mouth – swallowed – closed it again.

"Flint?" he managed finally. "He was ... Perce, he was the enemy."

Percy gave him an odd look. "He was the Slytherin Quidditch captain," he corrected.

"They're the same thing. My god, Percy, he _cheated_." Oliver could feel his cheeks getting flushed. "He was not a good person. He was captain of the Slytherin team! He was ... he wasn't Quidditch, Perce."

Percy looked uncomfortable. "He had nice hands, though," he said. "They were, um, rough. From all the Quidditch."

Oliver stared at him. Percy still looked pink, but he held Oliver's gaze. After a second Oliver had to look away, concentrating on not feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"So, you, uh ... you like guys, then," Oliver said eventually.

Percy made a strangled noise. "I thought we'd established that."

"Ah. Right, yes. Obviously"

In Percy's well-ordered universe, Oliver supposed it _was_ obvious. Percy probably assumed that Oliver would never have made a drunken pass at him if he hadn't known. But that assumed that the pass had been the result of, oh, any forethought whatsoever, which was obviously not true, since only an idiot would deliberately move on somebody so very, very uninterested.

Oliver summoned a strained smile. "Penelope was a bit of a pain too, now that I think about it. You have rotten taste, Perce; you should do something about it. "

Percy looked relieved. "You're one to talk. Didn't you have a crush on Professor Trelawney in fourth year?"

Oliver grinned. "I thought I was being sophisticated. Besides ..." He waggled his eyebrows. "Sybil's a sexy woman, Percy. You should have watched the way she moved her hands. Don't you have a thing for hands?"

Percy looked appalled. "My god, not hers."

Oliver had been careful not to mention Flint again.

*

The ominous cloud was still there; no closer or further away, but black on the horizon and slowly shifting and rolling.

There had been a lot of owls earlier in the evening, criss-crossing the sky, skittish and calling to each other. There were very few, now. Oliver had an image of thousands of households all over the country, all locked up tight, people feeding their owls and talking in over-bright tones over the sound of the wireless.

At least the black cloud wasn't hovering over Hogwarts. That would really have given the parents a reason to fret. But the sky to the north was clear and cold, stars sparkling distantly.

The wireless was on, back in the flat. Some sort of talk show. Oliver couldn't hear the words from out here, but he could hear the tone: hearty, warm, and strained underneath. He caught the word 'Aurors', and wondered what they were doing tonight. He'd often thought that it might be better to be one of them – to be able to actually act and maybe die, rather than this waiting, never knowing whether in the end you'd have to fight anyway.

Oliver should have gone to bed hours ago. His mind was over-tired, now, and starting to produce bizarre little fantasies, like that this night had already run over into the morning and would never end.

He was startled by an owl's shriek, much closer than the ones occasionally sweeping across the sky. He turned to find a scruffy barn owl coasting in, settling on his balcony railing and fluffing her wings. He reached for the letter tied around her leg and she lunged at him,. He held onto his patience, wrapped his sleeve around his hand and reached again. After a moment the owl let him come close; let him unhook the letter. She still looked deeply suspicious of him.

"Hey, okay, I'm on edge too, you daft bird. Just hold on in case there's a reply, would you?"

He blinked at the sight of Lee's heavily-sloping scrawl, slanting upwards almost off the edge of the parchment.

_You asleep yet?_

_Huh. Suppose if you were you're not now. Hell of a nervous owl, this one; probably wake you up by pecking you to death. Although then you wouldn't wake up. You'd just sort of lie there, an owl-pecked corpse. With feathers scattered over the bed, from the struggle._

_Damn. I'm not even sure why I'm writing. It's just this NIGHT. It's driving me insane. Do you think something's actually happening? We're newspaper people; I feel as though we should know. What's the point if we have to wait around biting our fingernails like everybody else? That one kinky broomstick sex story they let you do can't have made the rest of it worth it to you._

_Let me know if you see anything. Or hear anything._

_River_

Oliver rolled his eyes at the daft nic-name – Lee couldn't convince anybody else to use it, though he kept trying.

He scrawled: _Go to sleep, you wanker_, on the back of the note and gave it back to the owl. The owl spread her wings and launched herself away. At the last minute Oliver changed his mind and grabbed her back, gaining a jagged beak wound down his hand in the process. He cursed, belatedly remembering the difference between a Quaffle and an owl, and added: _p.s. It wasn't a sex story. I've never written a sex story. You have a problem; you are fundamentally twisted._

The owl left again, screeching indignantly. Oliver went inside to check his hand in the light. Elementary Healing Spells had been another seventh year lecture he'd spent scribbling game strategies instead of notes.

Everybody had thought it was a damned sex story. Even Percy had thought it was a sex story. The first time they'd met up since school, a year ago, Oliver had mentioned the very descriptive, entirely non-double entendred title, and –

*

Percy stared at him, his mouth falling open a little way. Then he coughed and loosened his collar, looking away. "That's, er ... interesting, Wood."

"Oh, for god's sake!" Oliver put his hands on the table. "It is _not_ about sex. It's about dangerous things to do with a broomstick! Just like it says!"

A couple of the other patrons in the Three Broomsticks gave him brief glances before turning back to their own conversations. It was still quiet and fairly sparsely populated in here – it was early evening, so the patrons were mostly villagers eating pub meals and gossiping, in the warmth of the long fire-lit room.

"I never said it was," Percy said primly. Oliver narrowed his eyes at him.

"Right. Okay," Oliver said.

He flipped a page of his notebook, trying to regain his dignity. This was probably a lost cause, since Oliver couldn't remember ever _having_ dignity. Certainly not when confronted with Percy Weasley, who was exactly as neatly pressed and composed and self-assured as Oliver remembered him being at school.

"So, it's, er – it's good to see you, Percy."

"You too, Oliver." Percy picked up the wild conversational throw smoothly. "I was surprised to hear it would be you interviewing me; I'd no idea you'd gone into journalism." He smiled, a little pompously, and added, "I always thought you were irrevocably set on a Quidditch career, to tell the truth."

Oliver bit his lip on a grin. "Well, yeah. I'm a sports journalist, mostly."

Percy blinked. He put down the glass of Butterbeer he'd been cautiously raising to his lips.

"I thought ..." He sounded confused. "Wasn't this about the legislation for the new Auror corps? I was told that that was what the interview was about."

"Yeah." Oliver grinned. "Broomstick division, right? My editor told me I could have it if I found a way to make it interesting. I talked him into letting me have a two page spread on crazy dangerous jobs involving brooms." He tilted his head, giving Percy a speculative look. "I didn't realise it would be you giving the interview, either."

Percy turned his glass of Butterbeer around a quarter turn, smiling a small smile at his hands. "I had quite a bit to do with the legislation, actually."

Oliver found himself watching the smile, and wondering what other things made Percy look so pleased with himself. He was faintly disturbed to realise that he wanted quite badly to find out. He shook his head, and gave Percy a grin. "Tell me about it, then. I have a whole notebook to fill."

Percy relaxed as he talked. He got quite enthusiastic, tapping the table with his fingers and drawing a diagram of the complicated safety charms that would be in place to stop the Aurors from falling backwards off their broomsticks whenever they cast a spell. It took up two pages of Oliver's notebook.

He didn't object when Oliver made the next round Firewhiskey, rather than Butterbeer.

"... or the time that Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet tried to claim that that synchronised airborn dance was their Arithmancy homework," Percy was saying. "Do you remember that?"

Oliver planted both elbows on the table, leaning forward and laughing. "That was _fantastic_. And it totally worked, too, I thought. They pulled off a perfect Elysian Tangent; I don't know why Vector was so purse-mouthed about it all."

Percy tilted his spectacles down. "Maybe because he expected his homework to be handed in on _parchment_," he said.

Oliver shook his head, grinning. "Arithmancy is due a complete overhaul, if that's the kind of backward thinking embraced in the field." He took a swig of his drink, enjoying the burn in his throat and the hazy warmth it left behind. "I would definitely have paid more attention in class if they'd let me do Arithmancy on a broom."

He straightened, his eyes lighting. "Hey, that's a good thought." He scrabbled for his quill. "There's got to be some mad old coot of a professor somewhere who tests out all his Geometrancy diagrams in the air; I bet I can find one."

Percy was watching him with that small smile playing around his mouth again. "What other professions are you featuring?"

"Hm?" Oliver glanced up, then back at his notebook. "Well, Fantastico's Flying Circus, obviously – I've got an interview lined up with one of the fire jugglers this Friday." He counted on his fingers. "And I had an interview pencilled in for the Nimbus test flyer on Sunday, but she's in St Mungo's growing back all her ribs after the new 3000 model backfired, so unless I can convince the hospital staff that I'm immediate family, I'll have to get somebody else for that one."

He tapped his quill on his lip. "What I'd really like is to get an interview with a dragon tamer. The Welsh compound won't let any journalist within six hundred yards of the place after that accident with the Quibbler kid, though." His eyes snapped back to Percy. "I don't suppose you could set up a Floo interview for me with your brother Charlie?"

Percy was frowning distractedly at Oliver's mouth. "You have ink on your ..." he said, trailing off and motioning with his hand. Then he blinked, taking in what Oliver had said. He coloured, looking away.

"I'm, er ... I'm not an especially good introduction to my family, at the moment."

Maybe the Firewhiskey was making Oliver slow. He hesitated. "What?"

"They're not talking to me," Percy said. He frowned. "Or maybe I'm not talking to them. It probably doesn't matter at this stage." He tapped out a pattern with a wet finger on the table, using a splash of spilled Butterbeer. "I think they like having a prodigal son. It seems to have brought the family together."

Oliver frowned. He leaned forward on his elbows. "That doesn't make any sense." He bit his lip. "It's not any of my business, but ... you're a Weasley, Perce. Other families throw their kids out, but ..."

"They didn't throw me out." Percy gave him a very direct, earnest look, and Oliver realised that the Firewhiskey had gone to his head rather more quickly than it had Oliver's. "They ..." He gave Oliver an uncertain look. "Do you really want to know all this?"

Oliver nodded.

Percy took a quick swig of his drink, gasping a little as he put it down. He kept his eyes on the glass, pushing a stray lock of red-gold hair off his forehead and out of the way of his glasses.

"When I was a kid," he said at last, "I thought my dad was an important man at the Ministry. I thought he was the most brilliant man in the world, and I'd grow up, and I'd work with him. And then when Bill became a curse breaker, and Charlie went to the dragons, I was even more determined that _I'd_ be the one who'd join Dad, and do the most important work in the world."

He flushed, throwing Oliver a look. "I know you probably think that Ministry work is tedious," he said.

Oliver shrugged. He kept his eyes on Percy, and the other man looked back at his drink. He swirled it in the glass, then took another swig.

"The thing is, when I started at the Ministry ... Wood, my dad's a laughing stock at work." He shook his head. "I know he's a good man, but ... It's like he doesn't even notice that they're laughing, you know? And I tried to ignore it, because he's my dad, and nobody wants to ... everybody wants to admire their dad, don't they? Nobody wants to be _embarrassed_ by their parents; I used to think that a good son wouldn't have noticed it, either."

Oliver thought for a second of his own dad, with his crippled silver hip, his eyes bright with pride as he watched his son learning to fly. He remembered getting older and realising that his dad would never be able to do that, and feeling awkward – trying not to fly too much at home, or only when his dad was out.

Percy was wrapped in his own story. "I got a promotion. I worked for it – I worked harder than I ever did as a student, because I thought if I could do well enough, then maybe ... Well, anyway, it was a big promotion. I came home, and I was so damned _pleased_. I thought it might be the beginning of something better for our whole family. And they ..."

Oliver had started when he heard Percy swear, and it took a moment to realise that Percy had trailed off.

"Dad said it was shameful," Percy finished at last. His tone was wooden. He looked up, meeting Oliver's eyes. "He said I was an idiot, and I should be ashamed of myself. That I only got the job because the Minister wanted to get information about Dumbledore, or Harry Potter, or ... god, who knows." He pushed his fingers over his eyes. "After that, everything came out. Everything I hadn't been saying, about what it was like at work, about ... And Mum just stood there, crying, but not trying to interfere." He shook his head, his smile bleak. "I've never seen her with nothing to say, but she didn't contradict him once."

Percy finished his drink. "She still sends me jumpers at Christmas." His voice was cold. "She doesn't ever say she thinks he was wrong, though."

Oliver stared at him. He'd thought the Weasleys couldn't crack. Hell, he'd thought _Percy_ couldn't crack. When Percy was stumbling over his words and blushing, he still had that self-possession in him, that reserved dignity that he'd had even as an eleven year old, nodding owlishly at Oliver from the other side of the dorm. The idea that his family could have cracked him ...

"Bloody hell, Percy," Oliver said. Then he felt stupid, because what kind of a response was that? Percy blinked at him, though, and smiled. The firelight was glinting off the rims of his spectacles, and off his hair.

"You shouldn't have let me go on like that," he said, his voice stiff. "This is supposed to be a Ministry interview."

"What?" Oliver glanced down at his notepad. The quill was lying next to it, the feather rustling quietly. "Oh! Oh, no ... I've got everything I need for the interview. You've been great. We should do this again some time." He looked up, and realised with a bit of a kick in his stomach that Percy was colouring. "I, um ... I'll get us another drink," Oliver said quickly, getting up.

"I'm not sure I need ..." Percy began. Oliver ignored him.

As they stumbled out of the village pub a few hours later, Oliver was willing to admit that Percy might have been right that he didn't need. Possibly Oliver himself hadn't really needed either, he thought, watching the world sway around him. Percy was laughing, his glasses askew on his nose, bright hair falling in his eyes. He shoved the glasses back up, and when he looked at Oliver again he had red half-moons pressed into his nose, where the frames had dug in.

Somehow this was terribly funny. As was the anecdote Oliver was trying to tell.

"And then Pince ... Pince said ... Fred should help his little sister up to her bed," Oliver said, gasping, and Percy nodded his head, his fringe bouncing. "And George ... George was laughing so much that Pince thought he was crying, and she kept trying to comfort him and asking why he was hiding his face."

"... and then Ginny came in, and Pince thought _she_ was George," Percy finished, his arm bumping Oliver's as he gestured. He didn't even notice. His eyes were bright and glazed, and Oliver found himself wondering whether all the Weasleys had such brown eyes, or if that was just Percy.

Percy straightened, adjusting his glasses again. "But they're not as funny as they think they are," he said gravely, then ruined it by snickering again.

"They don't take Quidditch seriously enough," Oliver agreed.

Percy gave him a surprisingly steady look, pausing under the glow of a wrought iron street lamp. "Oliver. Nobody in the world could possibly take Quidditch seriously enough for you."

Oliver sighed. "Mine is a lonely road," he agreed, his tongue stumbling on the consonants. Then he leaned forward, swaying close to Percy. "At least you're just as stupidly obsessive as I am," he said. He waved a hand. "You're just obsessed about ... you know, boring things."

He was drunk, and he'd swayed too close. Percy was blinking at him from barely an inch away. Oliver started to lean back, but Percy swayed with him, infinitesimally. Oliver stopped, transfixed.

Percy was very, very close. His glasses were glinting in the glow from the street lamp. His eyes were unfocused.

"You have ... ink," he said quietly, motioning at Oliver's mouth.

"Oh." Oliver didn't move.

"It's ..." Percy leaned closer, putting up one hand to turn Oliver's face slightly to the side. Oliver leaned forward, breathing in the smell of Percy's neck, warm skin and Firewhiskey and a faint trace of smoke from the hearthfires back in the pub.

"Percy," he said quietly, turning to press his face into Percy's hair.

Percy stiffened. Then he stumbled backwards. He stared at Oliver, horrified.

Oliver felt very, very sober.

"I'm –" Percy said. "I didn't mean –"

Percy turned on the spot and Apparated, the sound a sharp crack.

*

Oliver pushed the memory away. That had been a year ago. It was stupid to still be thinking about it.

He ran the tap over his hand, concentrating on the flow of cold water washing away the blood from the jagged beak tear. It wasn't that bad: the scrapes were shallow, once the blood was gone. He didn't bother putting anything on it; it would heal quicker in the air.

_"... capable hands of our newest Auror division,"_ the wireless was saying. _"... have no doubt the bold men and women of the broomstick corps have investigated the cloud, which Ministry officials say is probably a natural meteorological phenomenon – possibly signalling early snow." _

"Although," the other commentator interjected, her voice hearty, _"Auror Tonks was heard to say before they took off that she'd wear Mad Eye Moody's nose for a week if they got up there and found snow flakes."_

Oliver wandered back onto the balcony. There were lights behind most windows that he could see, but they were tamped down – muffled behind curtains.

Something flashed on the horizon to the east; once, twice. Oliver heard a dull boom.

He peered into the darkness, but there was nothing else.

*

Percy had Floo Called the next morning, while Oliver was blinking away a hangover. Oliver had stumbled over to the fireplace, dropping to his knees, wrapped in a blanket, and stared at him blearily. Percy had looked as perfectly pressed and put together as usual, but his eyes were tired.

"I wanted to apologise," he said stiffly, as soon as he could see Oliver. "You must have assumed ..." He coughed, and continued, even more stiffly. "I never meant to have you think that I wanted ..."

"It's okay," Oliver said quickly. "It's ... I understand." He pressed a hand to his forehead, willing his headache to go away. "I do, truly." And he did. People got drunk, and they did things they didn't mean. It wasn't Percy's fault that he was a cuddly drunk and Oliver had read it all wrong.

"Oh," Percy said. He coughed. He looked acutely uncomfortable. "Well, I'll ... I should leave you to ..."

"Perce," Oliver said. "Wait. I, um, I meant it, you know. We should get together for a drink again. Not like ... just, you know. A normal drink."

Percy gave him a cautious look, then seemed to relax. "All right," he said. "Yes. I would ... I'd like that."

*

Oliver was just about to leave the balcony again when he heard it: a babble of excited talk from the building over the way. A window was flung open and a witch stuck her head out, silvery-blonde hair electric under her nightcap.

"Did you hear?" she yelled. Her eyes were shining in the fragmented light from the street lamp below. She flung her arms out, catching the window frame and leaning forward. "He's _dead._"

There was more noise now. Oliver could hear laughter coming from the flat below, breathless and hysterical. Several people had spilled out onto the street. More stumbled onto balconies – some in nightclothes, but most still dressed, caught in night-time vigils like Oliver's.

"Harry Potter!" people called to each other. Two girls on the street below twirled and laughed, giddy and almost crying. In the window opposite, the night-capped witch had been joined by a wizard. He was leaning her backwards, kissing her, his hands tangled in her silver hair, letting the nightcap tumble to the street below.

Oliver turned in a slow circle, not quite able to believe it.

In the flat behind him, the voices on the wireless were changing.

_"... seems, yes ... yes, it does seem to have been confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named ... is dead."_ The presenter paused, overtaken by a choking laugh. _"Oh my god. Um ... yes, Harry Potter, they say. Nobody knows how, yet, but it happened in a field east of London."_

The sky was _alive_ with owls, a raucous brown and white crowd. Somebody on the street cast blue-gold sparks, which writhed and chased the owls' tail feathers in bright trails.

Oliver laughed, leaning back against the balcony. Then he dashed inside and grabbed his cloak. He wanted – he needed – to know what Percy was thinking.

The wireless was still babbling – the previous two presenters had been joined by a third, who talked very loudly over the top of both of them. Oliver ran through the kitchen and threw open the door, leaving it open behind him. He took the stairs three at a time, his shoes sliding on the corners, his hand on the banister.

He knocked open the door at the bottom and flew out into the street, hitting somebody at chest height.

Percy staggered back, holding Oliver's arms.

Oliver laughed, hearing the wild edge to it. He could feel Percy's grip, warm through his shirt sleeves.

"My Seeker!" Oliver said. "Did you hear? My little Seeker stopped falling off his broom long enough to destroy You Know Who!"

Percy was staring at him, his brown eyes dazed behind his glasses. He nodded, jerkily, his gaze fixed on Oliver, as though he needed something to anchor him.

"I got – I got an owl from Ginny." Percy laughed, the sound jagged. "I can't believe she ... " He shook his head, the glinting red curls of his fringe falling into his eyes. "She hasn't talked to me in two years."

Oliver grinned, feeling it come out wolfish and crazy. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Percy's, watching the way Percy's eyes widened and dilated.

"You're missing the point here," Oliver said, his whisper a low rumble in his chest. "The _war_ is over."

Percy shivered. Somewhere in the sky behind him someone had sent up sparks again, spinning whirls of colour that lit up the night. Percy's eyes were black and dilated. His fringe caught the light from the sky, turning it fire-bright, making his skin look warm, the line of his jaw pale in the dimness. Oliver's blood was thrumming inside him and Percy hadn't moved back, and damn it, Oliver had been resisting for so _long_. Percy looked lost. He looked as though he didn't know how to accept his sister's peace offering, didn't know how to take this night.

Oliver had never been good at not acting on his impulses.

He pulled his arms out of Percy's hold and grabbed Percy's jaw, twisting them around against the brick wall behind, kissing Percy hard.

After a shocked second, Percy pushed him away – an inch, only an inch – letting all his breath out in a shudder. "Oliver," he said, his voice cracking. Oliver moved so that his cheek brushed Percy's hair, the bright curls a glint in the corner of his eye.

"It's not real," Oliver said desperately. "Tonight isn't normal rules." He kissed the corner of Percy's jaw, and felt Percy swallow. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just tonight." He kissed up his jaw and back to his mouth. This time Percy gasped, a broken sound, and let his mouth fall open. Oliver bit Percy's lower lip, soothing the hurt with his tongue when Percy made a noise again, pushing further inside. His hands were on Percy's face, in his hair, sliding down to his shoulders. He wanted to touch everywhere, because he was never going to get this chance again.

He broke the kiss, staying close, his breath harsh on Percy's neck. Percy's hand had come up, flat over Oliver's pulse point. The gentle pressure made Oliver's breath snag. "You're –" Oliver started.

"Don't speak," Percy said, his voice low and breathless.

Oliver wished that he didn't understand that – that he didn't know that Percy was letting him be anybody, here, any warm body in the darkness with the thrill of celebration around them.

He also knew, of course, that he'd take what he could get.

Percy was warm against him now, pressed up against him, kissing back, his glasses hard against the ridge of Oliver's nose. Oliver could let himself believe that he was as hungry as Oliver was. His hand moved over Oliver's back, down his side – those fingers that Oliver had seen curled around a quill so often.

The background magic in the air around them was all static and warmth, like a cat rubbing up against them. There was no sign of the toxic, burnt sheen in the air from earlier. Oliver sucked lightly on Percy's tongue, his hands desperate on Percy's cheeks, as though he could pull that warmth and magic from Percy's skin, taste it in his mouth. Percy groaned. His hands tightened on Oliver's lower back, sliding around and up his chest.

Oliver was aware that if they didn't get out of the street they were going to be arrested for indecency, and part of him was amazed that Percy hadn't objected to that. He wanted to laugh at him and ask breathlessly what the prefect handbook had to say about groping people up against walls. He remembered Percy's _no speaking_ rule, though, so he bit down hard on Percy's collarbone instead. Percy shuddered.

"We should ..." Percy said, his voice cracking. "My ... I have my ... wand in my back pocket."

Oliver left Percy's neck with reluctance, and only when he felt Percy determinedly fishing in his back pocket, his movements clumsy. Oliver pushed his hand in between the wall and Percy, the rough brick scraping his knuckles, and found the hilt of Percy's wand. He grasped it, inside Percy's pocket, and twisted them around. A brief Apparition-blackness and a moment of pressure, then they were stumbling in Oliver's kitchen. The wireless was still burbling in the background.

Percy blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light. For a moment Oliver was terrified that he was going to change his mind. He was going to decide that respectable junior Ministry policy writers didn't Apparate into kitchens to shag people they weren't even attracted to, simply because the world had gone a bit crazy.

Oliver pushed forward again, pinning Percy against the bench. To his relief, Percy took a series of shaky breaths and pushed his hands under Oliver's shirt, sliding them up his back.

Oliver felt a flash of lust go through him, every part of his skin hypersensitive where Percy's fingers touched – careful, cautious on his back. Oliver didn't know how to be careful now, so he groaned into Percy's mouth, his fingers working on the buttons of Percy's robes. They were grey and sedate, and they must gave been the same ones that Percy had been wearing in the office all day, because there was a coffee stain on one sleeve cuff. Percy would never leave the house in the morning with a stained robe – not after all those years of frayed and threadbare hems on his hand-me-downs from Bill.

The robes came open. Oliver dropped his head, mouthing at the soft material of the shirt underneath, where it covered Percy's shoulder. Percy's nails tightened on the skin of Oliver's back in response, scoring thin lines over the contours of Oliver's muscles.

Oliver tugged the two of them into motion again, feeling Percy stumble with him willingly, the robe slipping off his shoulders onto the floor behind them. They knocked against the doorframe. Percy made a noise that might have been a laugh, or just a gasp, and then he was manoeuvring them across the hallway, into the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim. It was illuminated only by the uncertain light from the window: the pale glow of the street lamp below and the trails of living sparks which still coiled in the night sky. Oliver couldn't move fast enough, now. Percy's knees were against the bed. Oliver pushed forward, making him tumble backwards, and crawled in between his knees.

He stared down, suspended for a moment. Percy's eyes were dark and heavy lidded behind the pale gleam of his glasses; his cheeks were pale, except for a hectic colour high on his cheekbones. There was a worn brown and gold pillow under his head. Against the subdued, timber tones, Percy was all pale freckle-dusted skin and warm hair and dark brown eyes.

Percy looked nervous, as if maybe Oliver gad been staring for too long. Oliver leaned down, hooking his finger behind Percy's glasses and tugging them away. He tried to be careful about where he put them, but he heard them clatter off the bedside table onto the floor.

Percy blinked at him, blinded. It occured to Oliver that he'd never seen Percy without his glasses before. At school he had always emerged from behind his bedcurtains with his spectacles safely perched on his nose, his pyjamas neatly buttoned and with the collar not twisted up around his neck, the way Oliver's had always ended up.

Now he looked ... naked. Vulnerable in a way that Oliver hadn't ever seen. And he knew that Percy wasn't that vulnerable, and in fact probably he'd be running the Ministry one day – and Oliver hadn't thought he found power a turn on but the thought of watching Percy do that sent a warm shiver down his spine – but without the glasses, he was made anew. Made into somebody else.

Percy found Oliver's hand, following it up his arm to his shoulder; his face; tracing over his mouth. Oliver had been holding himself up with one arm. Now it trembled and gave. He fell on Percy with a _whoomph_ of expelled breath. Percy did that almost-laugh almost-gasp again, tangling his hands in Oliver's hair and pulling him down for a kiss again. And it was better than before, because there were no glasses, just hot mouths and soft skin.

Percy's shirt had been neatly tucked into his trousers originally, but it must have come partially untucked at some point. Oliver's hand found its way underneath easily, his fingers spreading out over Percy's stomach. He felt the muscles there contract, trembling. He broke away from Percy's mouth, looking at his face, where his eyes were almost completely closed. They opened as Oliver watched, the lids heavy. Oliver turned away to tear at Percy's shirt, pulling the buttons free of the their holes. Percy watched him, panting.

Percy's hand came up, over the rumpled collar of Oliver's shirt, plucking at the material there. "I want –" Percy swallowed.

Oliver understood and sat up, ridding himself of his jumper and shirt as quickly as he could. He tried to go without undoing the cuffs in his hurry, and they tangled at his wrists. He swore. Percy sat up, snickering, and pulled Oliver's left wrist towards him. He kissed the pulse there, then quickly undid the cuff, pulling it free of Oliver's arm.

Oliver felt his stomach clench. Percy looked up, his eyes wide and amber as they caught a burst of the light show in the window beyond him.

"Fuck," Oliver said quietly. Percy's shirt was still hanging off his shoulders, but it was open all down the front. There was sparse hair, red-gold and almost invisible, around the brown nubs of his nipples, and more in a narrow trail leading into his trousers. The skin of his chest and stomach was pale and perfect, shuddering with tension, and Oliver couldn't not touch.

He used his hands to slide the shirt backwards over Percy's shoulders, letting the cuffs snag on Percy's wrist bones just as Oliver's own had done, trapping Percy's wrists against his side. Oliver kept his hands there, over Percy's wrists, lightly cupping them. He kissed down the line of Percy's collarbone, stopping at his left nipple. Percy made a jagged noise in his throat and his trapped hands latched onto Oliver's, tightening around them. Oliver sucked lightly on the nipple. It was almost cruel, the noises Percy was making, because he must sound just like that when it was real, when it wasn't a pity fuck or the bad judgement high of the end of a war.

He shoved the thoughts away and kissed down Percy's chest. He let the roughness of 14-hour stubble drag for a moment against the tightened muscles of Percy's stomach as he turned his head. The proof that this wasn't _all_ pity was straining at Percy's perfectly pressed trousers, and because tonight he was allowed to, Oliver lowered his head and mouthed at the heat and hardness there, lightly scraping his teeth over the material of Percy's trousers to hear him gasp.

Percy grabbed awkwardly at Oliver's shoulder and dragged him back up. "For ... for god's sake, Wood," he panted. "Undo the damned shirt cuffs."

Oliver grinned, wide and predatory. Percy never swore.

Oliver lowered his mouth to Percy's wrist, kissing the skin there just as Percy had done earlier. Then he slowly slid the button out of its hole.

Percy twisted, using his freed arms to push Oliver flat to the bed. For a moment he blinked down at Oliver, flushed and myopic.

Then he gave Oliver a slow, sweet smile. It made Oliver feel as though he was being punched in the chest.

He stared for a moment, feeling frozen; feeling a thousand things all at once.

It was a relief when Percy turned his attention to Oliver's trouser fastenings instead.

Oliver knew what to do with lust. It was the other that crippled him.

*

Oliver sat up against the headboard, later, when they were both naked and exhausted. He stared down at Percy, who was falling asleep on his side. Percy's hair was mussed and his face was stripped of the fussy barrier of his spectacles. His mouth was reddened, and there was a mark on his neck, where Oliver had bitten down.

And Oliver still wanted him – here, like this – more than he thought it could be safe to want anything.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling. His muscles were aching, the pleasant languor of afterglow warring with the sick tension running through his veins.

Other people knew how to have lots of interests – how not to focus on one thing obsessively so that nothing else in the world was real.

Oliver, though, was obviously completely fucked.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, watching the patterns the fireworks outside made against the shadows.

*

He woke to harsh light through his window, and the rhythmic thud of something banging against the glass. Opening his eyes a crack and squinting at the window, he identified it as an owl. By the frantic determination to get in and the glint in its eye, he thought it was probably Lee's.

Memory returned in a rush. He bolted upright.

Percy was still there.

He was still there, but he was standing by the door, fully dressed, the buttons at his collar and wrists fastened severely. Every line of his posture said _uncomfortable_.

_Fuck_. Oliver closed his eyes.

Of course, that's what they'd done. His body warmed to the memory even as regret clenched cold and hard in his stomach.

"Good morning, Oliver," Percy said, his voice wooden. Oliver opened his eyes again, and swung his legs out of bed. Percy's eyes widened and he looked away, his cheeks flushing. Oliver grabbed his trousers and stepped into them, buttoning them quickly. He looked up again, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry," he said, getting the words out fast.

Percy shot him a quick glance, then looked away again. He nodded.

The owl was still throwing herself against the glass. Oliver hoped that if he ignored her, she'd go away.

"I'm … I should … get to work," Percy said. "They'll be snowed under." He tried a faint smile. "The death of a dark lord … it's going to create paperwork like you wouldn't believe."

Oliver nodded. He needed to get to work too. The _Daily Prophet_ was going to be the kind of chaos that Bethlehem Hospital could only have dreamed of. He returned Percy's pale smile, and wondered if the smile meant that they were going to be all right. He wasn't familiar enough with the rules of friendship to know whether last night had been a dealbreaker.

Percy nodded, sharply, and turned, fumbling with the door handle. His hair was still mussed at the back, even though he'd tried to comb it straight with his fingers. His collar was turned up, hiding the bruise on his neck. Oliver wanted to touch it – gently, with his fingertips, where the collar brushed his neck.

He turned his eyes away. Outside the window, the owl had started pecking at her foot, trying to free the message attached.

He turned back as he heard the door close.

Slowly, Oliver sat back on the bed.

That was it, then. One night, then the real world came back. Just like he'd asked for.

Another thing Oliver had always been bad at was moderation in his desires. He'd wanted to lead Gryffindor to the House Cup from the moment he'd spied the bleachers, outside the window in his first Charms class. He'd nearly killed himself doing it.

One night was enough the way blocking a single goal in a Saturday game in the park would have been enough.

Eventually, he got up to let the owl in. He heard the door open again behind him as he reached the window.

Percy's eyes were wide and he looked as though he'd nerved himself up for something. His hand clenched convulsively on the door handle.

"I just have to know," Percy said. "Was it a pity f-fuck, or did you just not think? Because I know that you knew."

Oliver blinked. He turned the question around in his head, waiting for it to make sense. It didn't.

"What?" he said.

Percy flushed. "I gave myself away that first night," he said. "When you interviewed me. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. We're supposed to be fr– we're supposed to be –"

Oliver didn't want to misunderstand this. He really, really didn't. He closed his fingers around the window sill to hide the way they'd begun to tremble.

"That night when I interviewed you," he said carefully. "When we got drunk and you leaned on me and …" _I almost kissed you_, he completed the thought. _And you pulled away._

Percy looked away. "I shouldn't drink alcohol," he said, his tone trying to be light. "I didn't mean to do that."

Oliver clenched his other hand around the window sill behind him. "Perce," he said, carefully, "what – what do I know?"

Percy did look at him now, and his face was twisted with stark self-disgust.

"That I'm hopelessly in love with my school friend, and have been for seven years," he said. He ripped the words out of himself as though they were tearing at his throat. His voice _sounded_ as though it was tearing at his throat.

For a moment Oliver couldn't move.

_Seven years_, he thought. _That was fifth year. That was the first year I was captain._

Percy had been a prefect that year. He'd almost glowed with pride the first time he walked into the dorm with his badge on, and Oliver had laughed at him and made some joke about how they could both get into the Prefects' Bathroom, now. And Percy ... Percy had blushed bright red, and busied himself unpacking his books.

God, Oliver had been so fucking _blind_.

Percy had wanted something for so long that when he found himself drunk and leaning on Oliver, all he'd thought was that he'd given himself _away_. Percy hadn't even noticed that Oliver … Percy had …

Percy was turning back to the door.

Oliver moved so fast that he almost knocked Percy against the wall trying to squeeze between him and the doorway. Percy stumbled, and Oliver grabbed his arms, holding him upright. Percy met his eyes.

"I didn't know," Oliver said hoarsely.

Percy went still.

"I didn't ... fuck, Perce." Oliver's hand moved to Percy's jaw, awkward and gentle.

Percy dragged in an uneven breath. "I'm probably going to g-get the wrong idea if you do that."

Oliver pulled him forward, pressing their foreheads together. "You've had the wrong idea for months," Oliver said. He laughed, a puff against Percy's mouth. "Fuck. How obvious did I have to be?"

Percy had closed his eyes when Oliver pulled him forward. Now he opened them, focusing on Oliver's face so close to his own. He stared for a moment, wide-eyed. Then he dragged Oliver the last inch forward, his hand clumsy in Oliver's hair. Their mouths banged together.

Oliver made a low, pleased noise and angled his head into the kiss.

*

When they eventually pulled back, Oliver was warm and breathing hard. He dropped his head onto Percy's shoulder; tilted his head to speak into Percy's neck. "I'm stupidly in love with you, you daft git," he said, his voice muffled. "I thought you knew."

Percy said nothing for a moment, but Oliver could feel him breathing fast.

"Okay," he said finally. He sounded blank and incredulous, and as though his mouth wasn't sure whether it was smiling or not.

Oliver snorted. "Eloquent." He could hear the grin in his voice. "You should consider journalism; we need talents like yours."

That reminded him of Lee's owl, and he pulled back to check on it. Percy was in the middle of making a comment about the eloquence of journalese, but he trailed off as he followed the direction of Oliver's gaze.

"Huh," Percy said.

The owl had managed to free the note from her leg, and was pinning it face forward against the glass. In Lee's sloping black scrawl Oliver could make out the words:

_Get in to the newsroom RIGHT NOW and you might steal the front page from Rita. Apparently Voldemort taught himself to fly before he died; he was up in that weird black cloud._

_Guess what crazy dangerous stunt Harry Potter pulled on a broomstick last night?_


End file.
